Persis would ask Justen, except she wasn’t supposed to be curious about things like that.
“Whatever you believe,” she said at last, “you ought to watch your tone in the Albian court. Not everyone is as sympathetic to the ideals of your revolution as the princess is, and you don’t want to make enemies in your position.” He was staring at her now, so she flipped her hair behind her shoulder and gave a careless, flirty shrug. “I’m no politician, but I know how to get by at court.”
Justen nodded. “You’re right. I’m too used to the attitudes back home. I’ll . . . try harder.” He gave her what was surely meant to be a hopeful smile. “I am aware not all aristos are evil, you know.”
“I do?” She cocked her head. He was cute when he smiled. It softened his whole face, making his eyes crinkle up a bit at the corners and turning those cheekbones of his from severe and serious to . . . well, surely sexy was well beside the point.
“You’re all right. I mean, except for that thing on your head. Anything with that many feathers that can’t fly is definitely evil.”
She touched the fascinator and pouted. “I’ll have you know this is my second-best hat.”
The Daydream glided into its berth and Slipstream clattered onto the dock, catapulting his long body off the side and into the clear green water beneath.
“Oysters,” Persis explained to Justen. “There’s nothing Slippy likes better.”
The cliff face rose before them, vertical and seemingly sheer. They strolled down the dock toward the lift and Persis peeled off her wristlock so her palmport could tell the door to open.
Justen chuckled.
“What?” she asked.
“Just a memory from last night,” he said. “Andrine and I had a horrible time trying to activate your port long enough to key in the passcode on the lift. Neither of us liked the idea of hauling you up the switchbacks.”
Persis glanced up at the ancient, zigzag road carved into the cliff. It was the remnant of another time, a long-ago owner of Scintillans who’d populated the switchback trail with Reduced servants acting as beasts of burden. But the lift had been installed long before the cure. The Blakes had been progressive aristos for generations. “I suppose if you’re going to stay here, we should get you your own passcode.”
“Am I?” Justen asked as the doors to the lift opened and they entered.
“Well,” said Persis, “it depends on how well you impress my father.” The round room was large enough for ten passengers at a time, but Justen pressed his hands against the windows as if trying to escape as the lift rose into the air. She stayed where she was, in the center of the lift, watching him. The seaward walls bowed outward, large panes of glass revealing the vast, glittery channel beyond. Sometimes, when the weather was clear enough, you could almost make out Galatea, but though her companion scanned the horizon diligently, a haze blocked the southern view.
“Homesick already?”
Justen didn’t respond.
With a jolt, the lift came to a halt and the solid back doors curled open like petals, revealing the Scintillans front lawn and every last one of its inhabitants, arrayed in their holiday best and standing at attention.
Her parents were stationed at the head of this ostentatious display. Persis stifled a groan. She knew what was coming.
“Justen Helo,” said her father, spreading his arms and grinning broadly. “Welcome to Scintillans. It is an honor and a privilege to have you here as our guest.” Her mother, holding tightly to her husband’s arm, smiled as well. Every servant in the household looked ready to break into song, and if Persis knew her papa, they’d been rehearsing all morning.
Justen turned to Persis and raised his eyebrows. She shrugged. “Don’t look at me. If there’s one thing Papa likes, it’s going overboard.”
“Oh,” said Justen with a wry smile. “It’s genetic, then?”
Seven
BEFORE THE REVOLUTION, THE royal palace in Halahou had been a monument to the selfish extravagance of its inhabitants. While peasants fought for equal rights against their cruel aristo masters, Queen Gala and her cronies knew no lack, experienced no injustice, and suffered from none of the problems that formed the daily fabric of life for every other Galatean. Was there a sickness? A legal dispute? A case of an aristo terribly mistreating a reg? The queen didn’t care. She didn’t even notice. She did nothing—nothing at all to help the people she ruled.
Vania Aldred reminded herself of this every time she walked past the old queen’s portrait. She knew her father hadn’t painted over the mural in the public courtyard for that very reason. The only alteration he’d made were the words in nanopaint that now flashed across the monarch’s frescoed face.
TYRANT
Vania spit on the ground in front of the portrait as she entered the gates. Queen Gala, the tyrant. Queen Gala, who had died too soon to fulfill the promise of the punishment her father had devised. The other aristos would suffer in her place—them and any other enemy of the revolution.
And that included that stupid, flowery Albian spy. Leave it to some aristocratic idiot to come up with such a deplorable and embarrassing code name. It was a wonder anyone took him seriously at all.
But they did. And her father would take it especially seriously once Vania reported that she’d lost the Ford children to the Wild Poppy.
The interior courtyard was occupied by a small group of police trainees in the midst of hand-to-hand combat practice. As she passed, Vania straightened. Most of her classmates were still in the program, while she’d sped through training and was already rising up the ranks of her father’s military order.
“Citizen Aldred!” the instructor called to her. “You’re just in time. I’m teaching a few maneuvers you’ll remember from your own training days. Care to favor us with a demonstration?”
Vania smiled at him. This instructor was a bit of a suck-up, always looking for preferment from her father, but at the same time, her combat ranking was an objective fact. “Certainly.” She slipped off her jacket and joined the group.
The cadets lined up, and Vania took her place in the courtyard. Her first opponent was clumsy and slow. She dispatched him easily. The second cadet was skilled at defending herself from blows but had no offense to match. After thirty seconds, she, too, was lying in the dust.
The third, a tall, slim woman, approached with a determined look on her face. She had at least ten centimeters on Vania, and probably a few years, too. At eighteen, Vania was the youngest officer in the entire Republic of Galatea, just as Justen was the youngest scientist in the royal—rather, the republic’s—labs. Vania tossed her hair over her shoulder as the cadet, Sargent, took a stance opposite her. She couldn’t afford to lose these sparring matches—not today. Not after her error at the Ford estate. To get beaten by a mere cadet would just lend fuel to the fiery rumors that Vania held her position only because of her father.
With a swift kick at her midsection, the fight began. Vania deflected the kick with the padded calf of her uniform pants, then ducked out of the way when Sargent followed it up with a punch. They circled each other, swiping and jabbing ineffectually. The cadet had excellent form and good instincts. She seemed to know exactly how Vania planned to defend herself from each attack. Vania moved in, changing her approach. Sargent, being taller, had a longer reach and could more easily protect her body, but Vania had a lower center of gravity. She made herself as small a target as possible and darted in, aiming her blows at Sargent’s knees to try to knock her off balance.